They never say a thing. They're not friends. They're just, to lazy to delete their disinterest. It's funny, in a way. I used to call them 'weasels', those scurrying noises, behind the dashboard.
The 'grey mice' of non entity, the fat and greedy 'taster's' and waster's of all we are to them, 'the buffet for today'...then, when we're skinned and boned, they go away...back to chat up someone else's cloister, if the weather's fair...in the overbite, at a gallery somewhere.
Like, twas said before, there's ways to favor silences, quietness...disabuse of verbal interest, query, question, absolute obtuse suggestion of a course direction, leading one to nowhere. Try a view, that can't be bought...out across the desert, there. Here, try a bite, of this droll dirt...and laugh away, and go away...ass wipe.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Clip from 'The Ballad of Cable Hogue, 1970
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